


Malwarebites

by Verse



Category: Digimon Adventure tri.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, Graphic Description of Injuries, dandan zine, tri spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 19:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18533806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verse/pseuds/Verse
Summary: The virus only ever affect digital beings. That is a fact.(The digidestined are only humans under some definitions. That is also a fact.)





	Malwarebites

**Author's Note:**

> my entry for the dandan zine!! self indulgence "what if takeru got infected by the virus when he got bitten"and i went HAM

He wakes up to drums in his head.

Takeru groans at the unwarranted pounding headache- he didn't even stay up  _ late _ last night, what gives? It feels like someone is pulling at his eyes from the inside of his skull. Hhhhn. Unpleasant.

Grunting, he rolls in his blanket to check on his phone, eyelids still heavy with sleep. What time even is it? Too early is his only guess.

He has to blink a couple times, to fully register the message on his screen.

_ Meetup at the bridge at 10. -Koushirou _

Urrrgh, right. Business. He allows himself to groan again. He's glad that Patamon is back, truly, he is. He just wishes the two of them could be together without the imminent threat of whatever world-ending cataclysm is about to fall- but then, the universe wouldn’t gain much at allowing them to be together in the first place, would it?

(He's glad that Patamon is back, truly, he is. But he can't help but wonder what is the  _ point _ when all fate seems to do is take him away from Takeru. Over. And over. And over. Locking him behind a closed gate or a hard egg shell-)

...this headache is making him cranky.

Alright, no more sulking. C'mon, head up. He's hope, isn't he? Everything is going to turn out okay. He knows it. A painkiller and some planning with friends and it will all be solved somehow.

As it turns out, the headache, at least, does not, in fact, get better by the time he gets to the bridge.

He joins the conversation, regardless. World-saving matters always take priorities over petty body dysfunctions. ( _ Patamon, _ always, takes priority over his own petty body dysfunctions.)

Even though the rolling drums are getting very annoying.

“Takeru?” He starts at Yamato’s sudden call- seemingly unrelated to the conversation. “Are you okay? You keep staring at the wall when you’re not speaking.”

“Ah- I’m fine, don't worry.” He oughts to be more careful; Yamato has always been perceptive. (Or rather, he had always been the watchful overprotective type, because no matter how much they fought side by side Takeru would always always always be the weak weak weak unreliable little brother.) “Just a migraine.”

It’s not even a lie. He  _ does _ have a headache and it  _ is _ the reason why he keeps spacing out. It’s just kind of a silly matter to him right now,compared to Patamon’s state.

“Oh, okay.” Yamato nods. “Take care of yourself,” he says, patting Takeru on the shoulder (the light shaking only makes the drums roll harder. Takeru bites back a wince.) “we need you in good shape to-”

“ **You’re lying** .”

Most people catch sight of Hikari and see a small, cute girl with passivity in her eyes. It’s easy to get where they’re coming from; her short frame frail-looking arms and  doesn’t exactly scream typhoons and rising storms.

Takeru has learned very early that appearances were, in fact, very misleading.

So really, he’s not surprised that her voice is sharp and heavy like a vocal slap on the face. He feels the hair on his spine rise with something a lot like betrayal, regardless.

“I’m not lying.” he says with a smile. He doesn’t actually expect to convince Hikari of that- she can read him easily, just like he can read her. Comes with relying on each other so much for years. 

(It’s difficult, to keep secrets from someone who has seen you raw and skinned. Takeru has rarely been more open than this: clinging to her in tears when no one was looking  _ please don’t leave me like they all did. _ Hikari has rarely been more open than that: whispering in the phone at two in the morning with sea salt in her mouth and sand on her sheets  _ I’m not sure I’m human anymore.) _

“I’m just a little sick. It’ll pass.” He shoots her a glance, or rather a plea.  _ Back me up, please back me up _ .

Sadly, Hikari was never fond of the whole 'bottling things up’ ideology. Unless it was about her, of course, the  _ hypocrite _ . (At the back of his mind a voice whispers that he’s being unfair, but the pulsing pain makes it hard to hear his own thoughts.)

“Are you worried about something ?” She asks. She reaches for him with a hand. 

He steps back.

“I’m fine.” The pounding drums only add to his irritation. He can feel his blood heating up under his skin. Can’t any of them take a  _ hint _ ?

“Takeru,” Taichi clears his throat “you know you can talk to us-”

“I said I’m  **fine** !”

Whatever answer Takeru gets, it’s lost to the drums in his ears and in his skull.

_ Bam, bam, bam _ \- his heart in his chest, a frantic rhythm to his moves and to his voice

_ Bam, bam  _ **_bam_ ** **-** his closed fist on pliable flesh, again and again and  _ again _

It’s something exhilarating- the feeling of the skin resisting, bending, caving under, until the sharp edges of bones are pricking at his knuckles- and then  _ air _ when the target is projected away.

His fist and elbow and forehead and knee- against bodies, or maybe concrete, or maybe a something he can’t name

“Takeru!”

He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. 

He sees movement- flailings and running and attempts to fight back. He hears cries- pained and surprised in languages he cannot hear anymore.It's all nameless now, wordless. Meaningless. 

Here what has meaning, to him: red. Bright contrast against the cold grey. Warm and powerful and  _ exciting _ red.

Here what has meaning to him: drums. Frantic and savage, beating the rhythm to a music only he can dance to, a music he  _ must _ dance to.

The scream raises up his throat almost by itself. Carrier of rage. Carrier of fear. Carrier of  _ pleasure _ , really. Long drawn-out roar like a lion showing its teeth.

“Takeru!”

Nails digging in skin, elbow slamming in chest. Kick at the shin. Palm at the throat. His owns, others- give and take, hit over hit,  _ bam, bam, bam _ . 

Hurt ripples through his arm- because there’s momentum and power and what he hit isn’t prey and his bones can't help but  _ give in _ against the new material. 

Hurt ripples through him, because there are hands and bodies all around him, all over him, trying to take a hold on him as if he was something that could be  _ contained _ \- how do you stop a burning sun? How do you rein in the four winds?

Hurt ripples, spreads. He feels it. He takes it in. He absorbs it.

He rears his fist back, and his scream turns to a cackle.

He’s a weapon. He’s a beast. He’s something swirling and untamed, a hurricane, a wildfire. He’s the world’s chaos given shape. He’s entropy in human skin.

He’s having so, so much fucking  _ fun _ .

Something soft and malleable forces its way between his jaws, trying to silence him. Trying to silence the quaking earth. Trying to silence the insane drums. Trying to silence  _ him _ .

He bites down. Hard.

The taste of copper is strong on his tongue- a divine liquor he drinks up greedily. It’s iron and death and life all at once, so much that it makes his head spin. He wants to lick it up. He wants to tear this gag apart. He wants to rake his teeth on flesh until he scrapes a bone. He wants. He wants. He wants. He’s desire and lust and  _ hunger _ and his newfound craving makes him shudder.

“ _ Takeru _ !”

Something, in the cage that forms his ribs,  _ listens _ .

It’s not quite a snap. It’s more something of a curve. He comes back slowly, like one wakes from a dream. The drums slow down, quiet down, turn to background noise (but they don’t leave, no, not yet.) His eyes keep on seeing, but his mind starts to actually  _ register _ . Blue, and green, and brown. Hard, rough floor against his cheek. Pressure at his ankles. Heavy weight on his stomach-

_ Pain _ .

He wants to cry out, because his right hand is agony- because he turns his head and is met with the sight of nothing but  _ mangling _ . But there's something in his mouth that muffles him. Something soft and malleable that tastes a lot like-

He wants to throw up.

He coughs, because it’s hard to breathe, and because his throat feels like fire- did he raise his voice? Did he scream at someone? He doesn't remember. He cannot remember. He recalls irritation and- and- an argument, he thinks? And then a flurry of wind and fire.

He feels a shift, above him, and the hand is pried away from him- because yes, it  _ is _ a hand, a perfectly human hand he had his jaws clamped down on as if it was merely a chew toy.

“Takeru?”

Oh. Oh god, fuck. No. No. No. No.

The bleeding hand, now resting on a thigh (disregarded, unimportant, because its owner never quite unlearned this habit of self sacrificing) belongs to  _ Hikari _ .

“Takeru?” She asks again, voice hopeful and tired.

His gaze flutters, right, left. Anywhere he looks at is a mess. Meiko’s holding her eye. Mimi’s pressing tissues on her crooked nose. Taichi’s shirt is messed up and red lines (claws?) cover his collarbone. Koushirou’s arms are firmly settled around his stomach. Yamato’s neck spouts clear finger-shaped marks around his throat.

Sora’s breathing hard, wheezing, pushing his legs strong on the ground. There is a distinct red stain on the wall that wasn’t there before.

Hikari stares at him from above. She’s messed up, too, an eye half lidded, a lip busted. Her hairpin is missing (and why is he even focusing on that when her hand still has  _ his teeth _ imprinted on it?) 

“I…” he coughs. His throat feels sore. He remembers, vaguely- laughers, or howls maybe. Was that him? That utter, primal glee, like the sound of cocking a rifle turned to music- was that him?

“What...happened?” He asks. Because he’s hope incarnate, and there’s a small part of him that can’t help but _hope._ Hope that they’ve gotten attacked during their meeting, hope that Hikari had her fingers jammed up his throat by accident, hope that Sora is merely checking on his legs rather than actively holding him down.

Hikari sighs in relief. “Finally. You’re back.” and Takeru’s stomach sinks like a stone.

Takeru is hope if hope stood on two legs- but that doesn’t make him stupid, or naive. He’s fully aware that he’s not… alright. That he hasn’t been alright in a long, long time.

There is violence, in him. There is anger and broken glass and his nine-years old bare feet still walking the woods. 

He’s learned long ago that acting  _ for _ good didn’t make  _ him _ good. He’s a liar because that’s what hope is by nature (lying to others and lying to yourself that everything will turn out okay) and he’s a killer because that’s who the world needed him to be and shaped him to be (kill before you get killed, kill because supplies are scarce and family is temporary and  _ you are not coming home. _ )

...Iori believed him a good person, once. 

(Then again this Iori never learned the full extent of what Takeru had the ability to do, had the willingness to do, had already done.) 

But Iori has a new life with new people and a new schedule and really, would they have ever hung out without the digimons in the first place? The bond between them will never fade away (as if he could forget the feeling of another heart beating with his own. Iori would always be the mercy to Takeru’s justice, just like the earth would always have the sea) and, well, they  _ are _ neighbors. But point is, he hasn’t seen the guy in quite some time. What does he know about the current Takeru?

Koushirou clears his throat, breaking both his train of thoughts and the silence. “I believe,” he’s looking at Takeru in a strange way. Like a wild wounded dog he wants to help but know will bite if he’s not careful. Or like a- a bomb on the verge of exploding he mustn’t upset at any costs.

Bruises are forming on Jyou's jaw. Takeru cannot fault him. “I believe that, ah. You were infected.”

The image of petite, unnoticeable, sharp, sharp fangs in his arm forms into his head.

Oh.

Takeru had been a monster, once upon a time- more than once, actually. Brandishing a machine gun at an animated puppet, taking a whip with a smile and retaliating with fists. It’s no wonder, really, that he fell back so easily into this coat.

He kind of wants to laugh. All that comes out is a weak, weary groan.

(In the deafening silence that follows, Takeru hears pained pants and rolling drums.)


End file.
